


Is It Chill That You're In My Head?

by rycewritestrash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Oblivious Clarke, One Shot, POV Clarke Griffin, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 21:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13865970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rycewritestrash/pseuds/rycewritestrash
Summary: Her mouth opens and closes before she settles on stating the obvious. “You made me a knife?”“Yes.”She hums, clicking her tongue. “Why?”“I don’t need a reason.” He falters, shoving his hands into his pockets.Clarke huffs, tired of playing whatever weird little game this is, especially when she doesn’t know any of the rules, or more importantly, how to beat him.So, she quits.orBellamy makes a new habit of gift giving and Clarke doesn't know to deal.





	Is It Chill That You're In My Head?

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Taylor Swift's song, Delicate.
> 
> You probably weren't expecting a one-shot from me this soon, but the amount of unfinished Bellarke works I have saved on my phone is a crime.
> 
> Completing a story is always more difficult than starting a new one.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The first time it happens Clarke is in med bay about to give herself stitches, because she’s too embarrassed to admit that climbing a tree in the forest, _alone_ , to collect the blue medicinal flowers blooming from its branches may have not been the smartest decision she’s ever made.

In other words . . . she fell.

It’s really not a big deal—an annoyance and inconvenience, yes.

But it could have been worse and it _wasn’t_ , so she’s choosing to focus on that fact, because she’s obviously fine--in a sense that she's not dead, nor is she at risk for dying. So, yeah. She's sticking with fine.

 It’s just that on the way down she hit a particularly large branch and now there’s a jagged cut running from mid-thigh to her knee, and a fair share of bruises decorating her skin, but some of them are from before the accident and therefor do not count.

At least not in this instance.

 _They'll heal eventually._  And by the time they do, she’ll probably have new ones forming to take their place anyways, so what else is new?

The cut on her thigh _will_ scar, but only the inch that actually needs stitching, so really, _it’s not a big deal._

But as luck would have it, when Bellamy finds her hunched over the makeshift stool, biting her lip raw to keep herself for crying out as she pours moonshine on the open wound, blood running down her leg mixed with alcohol and sweat and probably some tears, well--it looks _much_ worse than it is.

But try telling him that.

He freezes for only a second, long enough to gape at her and effectively make her regret all of her life choices leading up to this moment.

“Clarke! Jesus, what—”

And then he’s by her side before she can read the conflicting emotions passing over his face through her blurred vision. She blinks a few times to clear it, insisting that she's all right, and no _,_ she is definitely _not_ crying, her eyes are just . . . leaking.

His smile is wry, sweeping a sweaty strand of hair off her cheek--a gesture she's not at all familiar with coming from him.

"Sure, Princess."

She's far too exhausted to respond to that, or pick a fight over the nickname, but she huffs in his face to express her disdain anyways.

He grunts, thrusting his bag off his shoulders and onto the ground, before kneeling in front of her, grazing his fingers over the expansion of her thighs, searching for the source of the blood, careful to avoid the cut when he finds it.

“So what happened and why didn’t I know about it? Also—what the fuck—” He pauses, eyes stuck on the needle and thread on the table, before catching what must be a pained and sheepish expression on her face. “Were you actually planning to give yourself stitches?” he says incredulous, eyebrows rising beneath the curls pressed to his forehead.

She bristles at the implication in his voice. "So what if I was?"

“You’re absolute shit at sewing."

Clarke glowers at him and he shoots her a look that says, _you know it's true._

"It doesn't need to look _pretty."_ She pouts.  "It just needs to get the job done."

“You’ll leave a worse scar than necessary with the mess you consider good enough.”

She sighs, pursing her lips. "Whatever you say, Bellamy."

He glares at her, stealing the needle before she gets the chance to argue. “I was raised by seamstress, Princess. It really didn’t occur to you that your skin might be safer in my hands?”

She knows her face is red and blotchy and looks an absolute mess, but it’s actually a relief, given she won’t have to worry about Bellamy misreading the blush on her cheeks for embarrassment at being caught in this position with nothing but a ripped shirt and her ark-issued underwear on.

It doesn't help that he's on his knees, in between her thighs.

The few times Clarke allowed herself to imagine something similar, it was in the privacy of her own tent, under dark covers, with her fingers skimming dangerously low on her abdomen. She never acted on it of course, and never actually thought the fleeting fantasy would come true in any fashion, but _this_ just feels like the universe playing a cruel joke on her for thinking it at all—punishing her for being stupid enough to wonder.

She tends to pride herself for not succumbing into another one of Bellamy’s brainless followers, hanging on every word, simply because of his charms or looks. There’s a lot more to him than that, despite being a total ass half the time. _And_ they’ve just recently come close to some _resemblance_ of mutual respect for one another.

So, she really doesn’t appreciate the nagging voice in in the back of her mind reminding her how attractive he is, because being _hot_ isn’t an accomplishment that deserves any recognition, honestly.

She’d also rather avoid the sure-to-be smug look on his face if he ever caught her admiring his physique, knowing he’d never let her live it down, because being a dick is still one of his most defining qualities, even if he’s a much better person than she likes to verbally give him credit for.

“Clarke, are you even listening to me?”

She startles when his fingers brush her face.

“Sorry,” she mutters, averting her gaze, hoping that she wasn’t just mindlessly staring at him this whole time, because she has enough to be embarrassed about without adding to that list.

His jaw ticks like it usually does when he’s annoyed, but when he asks if she hit her head too, she knows it’s mostly out of concern for her well-being, rather than the fact that she was stupid enough to fall out of a tree.

That doesn't keep the sour look off her face when he asks how many fingers he's holding up though.

“Did you at least get what you were after?” he says later, after he’s finished stitching her thigh with minimal protest from her, and absolutely _zero_ tears.

“Of course I did,” she replies, nodding her head to the array of blue flowers littering the bench behind them.

He snorts and rolls his eyes. “I should have known.” His lips twitch when she raises a brow, waiting for him to elaborate. He shrugs. “You wouldn’t be much of a princess if you didn’t always get what you wanted.”

He stands before she can swat his arm, laughing when she flips him off.

She studies the wound, as she waits for him to leave, so she can get dressed and pretend this day never happened, but he hesitates reaching for his bag.

“I got you something,” he says in a soft tone that’s usually reserved for his sister.

It's maybe a tiny bit endearing.

“Oh?”

He shrugs before pulling out a bundle of books bound by a belt and plopping them down at her feet.

“Wha—”

Her mouth opens and shuts a few times without actually say anything, so he continues. “They’re empty—I thought, I don’t know . . . maybe you’d find them useful. You can use them to catalog the plants and your flowers, or . . . I know you don’t make time to draw anymore, but I figured there might be a more practical use for it--you know, if you wanted to, just because . . . It’s okay to do something because you want to, that’s all.”

He’s not looking at her by the end, rubbing the back of his neck, shuffling his feet back and forth like maybe he’s nervous, but before Clarke finds her voice again his bag is back on his shoulders and he’s gone.

*

It’s nearly a week later when Clarke walks into her tent and discovers an assortment of colored pencils neatly arranged on top of the makeshift desk, right beside the notebooks, still bound tight and left untouched otherwise.

Her eyes narrow, knowing Bellamy must be the culprit. He and Sterling arrived back from one of their scavenging mission only hours ago and there’s really no one else she can think of who would do such a thing, well—at least not since Finn started avoiding her like the plague.

“Clarke?”

He's also apparently become entirely too comfortable waltzing into space without warning.

“Ever hear of privacy?” she snaps, and then flushes at the sight of his bare chest. “Or wearing a shirt?”

Bellamy arches a brow, looking far too amused for her liking. 

“I just wanted to check to see how that gash was healing," he says, taking a deliberate step forward. "I didn’t know my not wearing a shirt bothered you, Princess."

She huffs. “It doesn’t! I just—you know it—it’s impolite,” she decides, folding her arms over her chest, satisfied with her reasoning.

At least until Bellamy mockingly responds with, “ _Impolite_?” 

She sniffs, nose in the air. “Yes, exactly. And _like I told you yesterday_ , and the day before that, _I'm fine_."

He cocks his head, studying her a bit, before outright smirking in a way that makes her want to snatch all the pencils up in a fist and throw them at his stupid smug face.

Then, as if reading her thoughts, he scowls, staring pointedly at the contents on her desk.

“You haven’t used them,” he accuses. There's a hint of hurt in his voice that stops her from flat out asking what he’s up to and why he keeps giving her things she didn’t ask for.

“I haven’t had the time,” she lies, avoiding his gaze.

“That’s bullshit.”

“ _Excuse me_?”

He bites his lip and at least has the decency to look a little awkward and unsure, like maybe he wishes he hadn’t brought it up at all, but she doesn’t understand _why_.

“You deserve to make time for yourself, Clarke. Stop acting like you don’t. Stop acting like we’re still just surviving."

And then he's gone, leaving her more confused and flustered than before.

*

“What is that?”

Octavia glances to where Clarke is pointing--the wildflowers woven together in a circle, just beside the half-empty moonshine bottles scattering the makeshift table.

“Flowers,” Raven says entirely unimpressed, and well--duh.

“Yes,” Clarke agrees, squinting at them. “Why are they here?”

“Um . . . because you collect them for—”

“They’re useless,” she interrupts. “They have no medical properties whatsoever and--why are they--it looks like a crown.”

Octavia gasps. “Oh my gosh, you’re right.” She squeals, picking up the offending object and settling it lopsided in Clarke’s hair, before she can protest. “Now you’re officially a princess!” She squeals, beaming at Clarke’s scowling face.

_Never trust a Blake._

“What the hell is your brother plotting?”

“What?” She actually looks startled by that, but Clarke refuses to back down, because if anyone knows how to keep a secret, it is most certainly Octavia.

“Your brother,” she says, flat. “He’s doing something. He keeps—he’s—I don’t like it.”

If Raven was a cat, her ears would be perking up right about now, because she’s looking at Clarke like she just gave her the cream, and this is the most interesting thing that’s happened all afternoon.

Octavia’s eyes flickers between Clarke and the . . .  _thing_ on her head.

She blinks. “Are you saying Bellamy made you _flower crown_?”

“Yes. That is exactly what I’m saying.”

“Holy crap,” She giggles, covering her mouth to muffle the sound.

Raven's grin is feral.

Clarke promptly announces that she’s taking a much needed day off.

*

“It’s a knife,” he says, hovering over her as she attempts to reorganize her work space.

Clarke studies the item in question before settling her sights back on Bellamy.

“Yes, I’m well aware of what a knife looks like. Why are you giving it to _me_?”

He beams at her. “You lost yours. I thought you could use new one.”

“That isn’t your knife,” she says.

He furrows his brows. “That’s . . . correct?”

“Where did you get it then?”

What  she means is, _who did you steal it from?_

“I made it.”

Her mouth opens and closes before she settles on stating the obvious. “You made me a knife?”

“Yes.”

She hums, clicking her tongue. “ _Why_?”

 “I don’t need a reason.” He falters, setting the knife down on a stool before shoving his hands into his pockets.

Clarke huffs, tired of playing whatever weird little game this is, especially when she doesn’t know any of the rules, or more importantly, how to beat him.

So she quits.

“No.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“I said no,” she repeats, final, pushing past him, but he grabs her arm to stop her, tugging at her sleeve. 

“What’s your problem?”

“ _My_ problem?" She scoffs. "You can’t be serious!”

Bellamy’s eyes widen considerably and he gawks at her, looking so utterly lost and stupidly adorable—

No.

_Nope._

Not going there.

“I thought—I mean—” He stutters before finally settling on, “It’s a gift.”

“A gift?” she repeats.

“Yes,” he decides, folding his arms across his chest, mask of confidence slipping back into place. “I didn’t think it’d be a problem, _Princess_.”

“Stop calling me that,” she says, glaring up at him.

 His mouth parts, and a shadow passes over his face. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“What? Like an insult? A constant reminder of my place on the Ark— _is that what this is_?" She waves her hand around, like _that_ explains it.

His eyes flash dangerously, walking her backward until she’s pressed against the edge of the table. “What the hell are you going on about? I was just trying to do something nice!”

“Well stop!" she shouts back. "It's confusing, and strange, and--and I have other things I need to worry about, without wondering what the hell you you want from me. I don’t need you giving me special treatment, Bellamy. I’m your _equal_ , not your leader.”

“Really?” He says, arching a brow. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t sound like it right now, does it?”

“What does that—”

“I don’t need your permission,” he says, cutting her off. “If I want to make you a damn  knife, _Clarke_ , I will. Hell, if I decide to build you a fucking castle to go with that crown, _I will_.”

She sucks in a sharp breath when he presses even closer to her, pushing her ass against the edge of the table, looking—well, incredibly pissed off, but something else too. There's a heat in his eyes and a hardening of his jaw  that wasn't there before.

She wets her lips, sucking in a breath when his gaze drops to her mouth.

“ _Why?_ ” she whispers, blinking up at him.

He leans in and she stills him with a hand pressed to his chest.

His heart is racing, pupils dilating, as his eyes flicker over her face.

“I want you,” he says, low.

Her breath hitches, mouth falling open and hanging there.

He clears his throat, shaking his head. “Okay, yeah, I didn't mean that how it sounded.”

“You didn't?” Her voice cracks, and . . . when did she start gripping his shirt with her fist?

 “Well, _I did,_  but . . . I had something else in mind first.”

“Huh?” 

He huffs, but his expression softens into something more . . .  _playful,_  and seemingly amused by her lack of vocabulary. “I like you,” he states bluntly.

. . .

“ _You do_?” Her brain needs more time to process.

“Clarke,” he says, unimpressed.

“I just . . . I mean . . . You like lots of girls, Bellamy!” she stammers.

 “I like having lots of sex. There’s a difference.”

Her face flushes hot and she ducks her head to hide it, but he tilts her chin back up.

“I was planning to wait 'til I knew we were on the same page as, but you’re surprisingly even _more_ impatient and stubborn than I am.”

“Hey!" And then, "Wait. Are saying you’ve been trying to _court_ me into bed with you?”

His mouth twitches. “Well, I’d hope that’d eventually be a part of the equation, but that’s not all I had in mind.”

Oh.

Right.

_He likes her._

As in—

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says after a beat. “Just thought I’d give you time to wrap your head around it.”

She immediately tenses up, sucking air in through her nose when he dips his head, pausing to rest his forehead against hers.

“Still with me?” he checks, looking hopeful and a little like he might actually be unsure. 

She nods slightly, buzzing with excitement when a desperate, _thank god,_ escapes him, before he descends, capturing her mouth with his.

It’s wet and messy, leaving her wanting more, until he gives it to her, gripping her ass to lift her up on the table and slide in between her thighs. She winces slightly when his fingers graze the stitches beneath her clothing.

"Still good?" he asks.

She responds by pulling him hard against her. He laughs into her mouth, nipping her lip, sucking on it gently. She pulls at his hair and he threads his fingers through her own in retaliation, gripping and tugging her head back to drag his teeth over her neck. She moans, jerking her hips into his aching for _more more more_.

He gasps against her cheek.

“Jesus, if I knew you’d be this responsive I would have made a move weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you?” she asks, forgetting all the reasons why she would have never fallen for it. Now, she very much just wants to pull him back down and ask him to do that thing with his mouth again, all down her body.

“I was trying to be _romantic_.” He pouts, squeezing her breast through her shirt, before pulling back to look at her. She giggles when his fingers brush over a particularly ticklish spot on her side. “You’re going to like me, too.” He grins, pressing a chaste kiss to her jaw.

She huffs, rolling her eyes. “I think that much is obvious.”

He pinches her side, making her squeal and wiggle against him. “I mean it, Griffin,” he says, tucking the hem of her shirt. She jolts back at the feel of his calloused fingertips tracing over her skin. “You’re going to be crushing on me so hard before the night is over,” he promises,  pulling her back into a kiss, grinning like a fool.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” she says,  when she has a chance to catch her breath.

“And I'm going to make you a hundred knives," he adds, petulant.

She snorts. "Seems like a bit of an overkill."

He nips her chin, unfazed . "And you're going to thank me for every fucking one."

"Whatever you say, Bellamy," she says, and actually means it, for once. 

"No, Princess. Whatever the hell I want."


End file.
